“I was a murderer,” Zaire corrected. “And I been livin’ with that on my hands ever since.” He held his palms up like there was blood still there. “These the hands people cheer for….the hands they call blessed. These the hands the league wanna use to build their ratings. They don’t know these hands were covered in blood before I even learned how to tie my shoes.”
Meadow didn’t think as she crossed the space between them, and knelt in front of him as his back hit the porch rail and his legs folded under the weight of the memory. She eased herself into his lap…slow, and gentle, like she was cradling the pieces of him he’d kept shattered and hidden.
Zaire stiffened. “Meadow…”
She wrapped her arms around his neck and held him with a strength he didn’t expect.
“Come, on, cuh…” he eyes misted.
“You were five,” she whispered into his shoulder. “Five, Zaire— a baby. You didn’t murder that man. The streets murdered him the moment they brought war into your home.”
Zaire’s breath broke against her collarbone.
She cupped the back of his head speaking life and reasoning into him. “You saved your father, and he saved you back.”
He swallowed hard, chest shaking. Zaire was trying so hard not to cry but the softness of her had his resolve melting like ice cream on a summer day.
Meadow pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. “You think a little boy deserves to carry guilt for something grown men created? You think five-year-old you was supposed to understand flags and enemies and fear?”
Tears rimmed his whispy lashes. He didn’t let them fall, but they glittered.
“You think I don’t know what weight looks like?” Meadow assured, her thumbs tracing love against his skin. “You think I can’t recognize a soul that’s been holdin’ too much for too damn long?”
His hand slid up her waist without thought, fingers pressing into her skin like he needed to confirm she was real. He wanted to kiss her so bad, his lips hurt. “I can smell you, baby,” his voice came out strained.
Her breath stuttered. “Then do something about it.”
His forehead dropped to her cheek, breathing her in like he needed her lungs to help his work. “I want to…” he rasped. “So fuckin’ bad.”
“Then do it.”
He shook his head against her skin. “You ain’t ready, and I’m not here for just this.” He pulled back enough to stare at her mouth. “If I take you like this, Meadow…I won’t let you go, I won’t be able to, and you got a whole life to protect.”
Her lips trembled. “Maybe you in it.”
His jaw clenched so hard she felt it. “This ain’t just sex to me. Not with you.” He stared into her eyes where he wanted to get lost but knew he shouldn’t. “This is…somethin’ else… somethin’ I don’t even know how to carry yet.”
Meadow cupped his face with both hands, thumbs brushing the dampness at the corners of his eyes. “Then let me carry some of this weight for you. Just a little. Just enough until you strong enough to carry it yourself.”
Zaire inhaled, letting out a sound between a sob and surrender. He rested his forehead against hers, breathing in her slow, deep, careful breaths.
“You gon’ ruin me,” he whispered.
“No,” she breathed back, lips hovering over his. “I’m gon’ rebuild you.”
Zaire was finally finding his rhythm again.
Ray stood a few feet behind him, leaning on his club like a coach with too many opinions and not enough filter. “No, son…turn your foot,” Ray fussed. “You ain’t gon’ get no distance standing stiff like that. Loosen your knees.”
Zaire chuckled under his breath. “You actin’ like you was on the tour.”
Ray lifted his chin. “Icould’vebeen.”
“Mmhmm.”
“Don’t ‘mmhmm’ me,” Ray barked. “I used to tear the league up at the Juniper open back in the day.”
Zaire swung again, cracking the ball across the sky. Ray nodded.
